Frigid
by Besina
Summary: On their way home from a successful case, John and Sherlock stumble into something rather inexplicable. Rated M for safety, nudity. Characters: Sherlock, John, OC. Friendship, possible slash if you want to read that into it, mystery, supernatural.


A/N My first attempt writing Sherlock fic, please be gentle. Just a weird little plot bunny that popped into my head and I decided to follow. More of this type of thing possible, if you enjoy it. Waiting on a beta read, so not entirely up to snuff yet. Reviews are wonderful things, even if they're not all roses. In other words, please review, I need feedback.

Rated M for safety  
>Sherlock, John, OC<br>friendship, possible slash if you want to read that into it, mystery, supernatural

Disclaimer: I do not own the characters of Sherlock and John and mean no copyright infringement by bringing them out to play, nor do I make any money by writing this fanfic.

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><p>It was late night in mid-January, the snow falling in blankets across the city and the streets. Most of the people were home, nestled beneath covers in front of fireplaces and tellys, shutting out the cold winds and negative wind-chill of the storm.<p>

Sherlock and John were just returning from wrapping up a successful case in the countryside and despite the road conditions, each in a very jovial mood, though covered in blankets as even the cab's fairly substantial heater was having problems keeping up in conditions this cold.

The crash sounded off ahead of them to the left – an ear-shattering cacophony of crunching metal and shattering glass, followed by the groan of a great mass of metal settling into place. Sherlock moved forward to tell the cabbie to stop, but the gentleman was already complying, moving close to the crash and turning on the emergency blinkers.

The two disembarked hurriedly, leaving the cabbie by the car, following the swerving tire tracks through the snow and up over a small hill, steam rising from the outline of what must have been the wreck further back through the storm. The wind was kicking up and flakes were starting to come larger and faster every moment.

Sherlock froze. Something, aside from the car crash, felt very, very wrong. John seemed to sense it too, standing stock-still for a moment, his soldier's instincts apparently kicking in; then, shaking it off, returned to his calling as a medic, plowing hip-deep through the gathering drifts toward the scene.

Alerted by the sound of short, painful sobs, they spied a figure staggering toward them through the snow, collapsing, regaining her stance, only to take two more steps and repeat the process once again as she made her way over one of the nearest drifts. Blood trickled down her face, drops landing brightly on the snow. As they bounded toward her, Sherlock closing the distance a bit more quickly than his friend, her eyes locked on his, widened for a moment, as her lips moved wordlessly. She stared at him in confusion for a minute, head cocked curiously to the side, before her eyes went glassy and she buckled, face-forward into the snow.

"Sherlock!" John called, as he reached them, rolling the girl _(woman?)_ onto her back in the drift, checking her breathing and her pulse.

"Sherlock!" the voice was insistent and broke the detective's dismayed reverie for a moment.

"Sorry." He leant down to assist John in his triage.

"Why didn't you catch her?"

"Hm?" Sherlock's mind was wandering again.

"Her! She was inches away from you and you let her fall face down into the snow!" John looked curiously over at his companion. "What's come over you? Are you alright?"

"Mm? Yes. Fine, fine. Anything else I can do?"

"Keep an eye on her vitals while I check if it's safe to move her." John's deft hands quickly worked around her head (cut, bleeding from the scalp, nothing life-threatening, bump, would see to that later) gently down her neck and spine. "Can't be sure yet, but the indications are good. Go back to the cab and see if he's got anything remotely useful we could use to move her. Even a blanket would do in a pinch. We've got to get her back to the car and out of this cold."

Sherlock stood up, gazing first toward the road, then behind them. "John..."

"Then check and see if there was anyone else in her car and..."

"There is no one else." The quiet coolness of Sherlock's voice sent shivers up his spine.

"For God's sake, Sherlock, this is not a time to deduce, just go check!"

Sherlock merely cleared his throat waiting for his companion to look up which, after a moment, he did.

Sherlock stood on the hillock, black against the swirling white of the snow. Something was wrong. John glanced back behind himself at the road. The cab! The cab was gone!

"What bloody arrogant, greedy, fool would take off and leave us here at an accident where people obviously need help!" he cried, eyes furious.

"It's worse." Sherlock's voice was calm and steady which did, indeed, seem to make things seem worse.

"How the bloody hell can it be worse?" He followed Sherlock's glance from the road over the hill to the steaming wreck…which also wasn't there. His head snapped back and forth from the road to where the great mass of metal had come to a stop.

Nothing. No tire tracks, no torn up shrubbery, no smell of hot radiator fluid. Gone.

Just them. Sherlock, himself, the woman, and the snow. The very persistent snow and piercing winds. He huffed on his hands to try to regain some feeling in them..

"Sherlock?" his voice trembled. "Cabbie might have gone for help, right? And…the snow's coming down quickly…"

"Without telling us or hearing him drive off? Coming down quickly enough to erase all tire tracks, wreckage left in its wake and a twisted mass of hot metal? I think not. We're on our own, John. She can travel, but she'll need our help."

"How on earth can you be certain of that? We might do more damage moving her!"

"Firstly, because we don't have a choice; secondly because we need to get her out of the snow, town is that way and motorists out on a night like this are hugely unlikely; thirdly, because I believe if it was that bad, we'd be in far worse trouble than we are." Sherlock bent down, wrapping the woman's arm around his neck, John, still bewildered, following suit.

"Wha… worse? Sherlock?" Hey raised his eyebrows in a searching query of his friend's face as they began to trudge through the snow toward town, and possible rescue.

"Just be glad," muttered Sherlock through gritted teeth, "that you are far more memorable than a random taxicab."

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><p>They managed to get up to the side of the road, where the snow wasn't quite so deep, and after plodding on for about twenty minutes, lowered their burden to the ground to take a breather and let John check her vitals once more.<p>

"Breathing seems a bit more shallow, pulse is a bit thready, but it was initially too. She's losing heat, but that's no surprise either, given the situation. Give me your scarf, I've got to try to stem this bleeding or by the time we get her back to civilization, she'll be down two pints."

Sherlock surrendered his scarf; John pressed a couple of folded, clean handkerchiefs against the laceration and tied the scarf in place to hold them steady.

"John?" Sherlock caught the doctor's glance. "At the pace we're going…"

John hung his head a moment, and shook it slowly. "Not likely. We need access to my medical tools, or a hospital."

"Then budge." Sherlock muscled John out of the way, grabbed the pale hand at her side, squeezed it tightly, and then forcefully slapped her face numerous times with his other.

"Sherlock!" John stood agape.

"I need to rouse her!" And again his hand smacked hard against her face. "Wake up!" *smack* "I need you to wake up! A cab! Do you hear me? We need a cab!" Then muttered under his breath, John thought he heard the words, "Or we'll _all_ die."

Grabbing his hand before Sherlock could muster yet another smack, John yelled, "What in the name of... Stop it, Sherlock! Have you lost your mind? You're probably scrambling her brains – and how on earth do you expect…" However, his words trailed off as headlights appeared in the distance, bouncing over the packed snow toward them. Wordlessly, he stepped into the street waving his arms to flag it down.

Sherlock nearly choked when he glanced up to see John neatly framed in the oncoming headlights – a sitting duck on the slick surface of the road; but the car slowed and stopped without much trouble, and without running the good doctor down.

Not a cab. That would be too odd for words, but a sturdily-built Land Rover carrying a family of four stopped and managed to squeeze them all into the back. The driver maneuvered the car back toward town, informing them that most of the streets were closed, but dropped them as close to Baker Street as possible, John explaining that an ambulance would be summoned as soon as they got indoors. Hurried thanks were given as they disembarked; and the family resumed their trip, feeling like saints, though a bit shaken from the scenario.

A few blocks of half-carrying, half-dragging the unconscious woman got them to the front door of 221B. Sherlock fidgeted a moment with his free hand, swinging the door open.

One look at the narrow staircase and John lifted her expertly in his arms climbing swiftly toward their flat. Mrs. Hudson appeared in the hallway below, quickly shutting the door behind them.

"Oh my! What's this? Is anyone hurt? Should I call the ambulance?"

"Yes!" came John's reply, quickly bitten off by Sherlock's "No!"

Smiling charmingly down at their landlady, Sherlock calmly explained, "No, no need Mrs. Hudson, we have it in hand. Should things get worse, we'll call, I assure you."

Rather flustered but relieved, Mrs. Hudson retreated for a moment before coming back to call up to them, "The heat's out, I'm afraid dears, but I've made a nice fire in the fireplace for you, and the water's cold, but you can still heat up a nice cuppa on the stove."

John wrenched the door to the flat open and staggered to the hearth rug, laying his burden down in front of it. "Blankets, Sherlock, quickly!" he managed, before starting to peel off layers of her cold and sodden clothing. He slid her gloves off gingerly, saying a quick thank-you to any deity currently listening that there didn't seem to be any serious frostbite, taking care to remove her boots and check her toes as well, before moving to her clothing.

Sherlock reappeared in the living room, carrying every blanket he'd managed to find, glanced at John's progress, dumped the blankets on the couch and quickly proceeded to help him peel her free of her clothes. Her skin was freezing. Sherlock glanced up once they'd removed the last of it to spy John quickly unbuttoning his shirt and trousers.

Noticing the look, John replied, "Hypothermia, Sherlock, strip and get those blankets down here."

Sherlock complied, quickly laying two quilts on the floor, then helping John roll her from the cold floor onto the soft layer, facing her toward the fire. Removing the rest of his clothes, John clambered down on the floor behind her, pressing tightly against her back throwing an arm and leg across her and pulling her close to him, shivering as he did so. Sherlock followed suit, stopping just short of disrobing altogether.

"Pants too, John?" he queried.

"Warmest part of the body, Sherlock," came the reply. So he quickly divested himself of those as well, threw the remaining blankets over them, then snuggled in tightly underneath, copying John's movements, encasing her with both arms and legs.

"Dear god," he panted, "she's freezing. I think I may have just re-ascended."

John let out a brief chuckle. "Yes, but we'll get her warmed up – it just won't be comfortable for a while. "

They lay there for a while in companionable silence, both clamped on to their chilly charge and listening to the fire crackle.

John was the first to break the silence. "Sherlock?"

"Yes, John?"

"Not exactly what I'd imagined for our first threesome."

After moments of them both trying to retain a straight face, they broke down in muffled laughter, somewhat dispersing the tension that had been with them since the bizarre events of the night had first taken place.

"Seriously though, Sherlock..."

"Mm?"

"What was that back there? Hitting her? Demanding an unconscious woman get us a cab? And what of her car? The cabbie? Seriously, what's going on, because I still can't explain much of it."

"What can you explain?"

"The cabbie _could_ have gone for help, we were a fair distance away from the cab by then, and a bit focused on other things, so it's possible we may not have heard him leave. As for the tire tracks, again, it may have been snowing more than we thought, or possibly we lost track of time – it _is_ possible." He looked up at Sherlock, as if for confirmation.

"The wreck?"

"Wrong angle to see it properly? Disoriented? Maybe it hit a snowbank and after a few minutes the snow dislodged and covered it?"

"Sound theories."

"But wrong."

"Yes, wrong."

"Why did you not want to call an ambulance? I mean I think now that I've had time to look her over, it's all things I can take care of, but we didn't know that then…"

"Because a hospital might have put drugs in her system and trust me, that would have made things a great deal worse. Which reminds me, how's her head wound?"

John peered over her shoulder, lifted the bandages a bit. "Good for now, but it'll need some cleaning up, possible cauterization and some stitches. I'm more concerned with getting her warmed up at the moment."

Sherlock nodded with a brief, "Okay then," and they spent the next half hour locked around her, still feeding their body heat into hers.

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><p>John stirred. "I think it may be safe for me to tend to that wound now, if you don't mind continuing to be her heater." He rolled from beneath the blankets as Sherlock nodded and trod, naked, over the cold floor to fetch his kit.<p>

He returned with it, then disappeared once more into the kitchen, put the kettle on to warm some water, fetched a few clean towels and a bowl to pour the warm water into. When everything was done, he stacked it on a tray, plus a cup of tea for himself and one for Sherlock and returned to the hearth rug.

Sherlock took the cup gratefully and drank it in a few swift gulps, whereupon John proffered his and received a heartwarming smile, as it disappeared just as swiftly past Sherlock's lips.

Settling down beside her, John removed the bandages, stemmed the flow of blood with some gentle pressure, wiped the wound down with the cloth and water and prodded around in search of any glass shards. Satisfied that he'd gotten them all he wiped down her entire face, cleansed the area again with iodine and prepared to stitch up the cut. He paused, looking uncertain. After a long moment he looked back up at Sherlock.

Sherlock held him in his gaze, waiting for him to speak.

"Sherlock…why…"

"...do you know her?" Sherlock finished for him.

"I mean, I've never seen her before in my life but…"

"Yes, I had the same reaction. Best you get on with your work; we'll discuss it when you're done."

John did his best to focus on his stitching, but caught himself every so often looking down into that face and pausing. Sherlock did his best to hold her head still, clearing his throat when necessary to get John's mind back on his work. He finished fairly quickly, all things considered, applied a new bandage and antiseptic to her forehead, then slipped beneath the covers once more, chilled from having been out from under them in the heat-deprived apartment.

"Sherlock." It was a statement, nothing else.

"You'll be wanting to discuss it?"

"Yes. She's not famous, infamous or been in the news or on the telly, has she?"

"No," he said, slowly, "I think it's far more visceral than that." Quickly changing his tone, he said, "Now see if you can find me her phone. Hopefully in a pocket somewhere?"

John located it and dutifully passed it over to Sherlock. "If you knew she had a phone, why couldn't we have called for help?"

"Wouldn't have worked. Now," he said, resuming their conversation, "you know how the brain works when it's in shock, what happens when a person loses consciousness during a traumatic ordeal?"

"A near-death situation you mean? Bright light, tunnel, relatives, that sort of thing?"

"Perhaps, but not always that exact scenario. What these experiences do have in common is that the mind, during stress, will seek out something familiar and comforting, or fixate on something or someone who could offer help or solace. Many religious experiences can be traced back to that effect." Sherlock flipped the phone open and pushed a few buttons, then laid it aside.

"You've looked at her face, but you didn't see her eyes, right before she fainted. She recognized us as and was very, very startled by it indeed. I think, in addition to her wounds, it's part of the reason she passed out."

"Why would that be?"

"She looked at me as if, although familiar, I couldn't possibly be real. She probably fancied herself going mad."

"Why would she think you couldn't be real? Either of us for that matter?"

"Because, John, in her reality, we aren't."

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><p>John stared at Sherlock in silence, wondering if it was he or Sherlock who'd gone 'round the bend. Perhaps the car crash was theirs and this was all a mad delusion. Surely Sherlock wouldn't be spouting such nonsense; or perhaps he would, but then come up with some explanation that made it all make sense again. But he wasn't doing that.<p>

"Get out your smelling salts, John, we must wake her and we haven't very much time."

"Sherlock, what are you saying? Are you well?" John reached over to feel the man's forehead, but Sherlock quickly brushed him away.

"Of course I am! Just follow along, we'll get you there! Now, salts! Really, John!"

John reached into his bag pulling out a small white packet, holding it beneath her nose and crushing it with a small popping sound.

Within a few seconds her eyes fluttered open, staring first vacantly at the ceiling, then groggily at her environs, her gaze briefly landing on each of her rescuers, then quickly gliding back and forth between them, then gathering the blankets a bit more tightly around her as she started to sit up.

She looked woozy for a moment and John caught her before she toppled and laid her back down, tucking the blankets back in around her.

"Not so fast. You've been in an accident," he explained.

Her glance moved quickly over to Sherlock, now sitting up somewhat immodestly beside her, with very little of the blanket left to cover him. "You're not crazy," Sherlock assured her. "You've had a jolt, and frankly, you've dealt with it in the most extraordinary manner."

"But… you're…."

"Sherlock, and this is John, yes."

Moments of silence followed, while she alternately looked around the room, at the men beside her, then scrunched up her forehead as if trying to think, despite the pervading fogginess in her head.

Finally, looking back up at them, she managed "But you're not real, you're just characters … figments! ... I .. I write stories about you and… " suddenly a flush rose up her neck and her cheeks burned bright red, as something occurred to her, "Oh my…" she gasped, looking slightly mortified.

A few more silent, awkward moments passed before she seemingly decided on something and settled back down into the blankets, nodding to herself whilst mumbling "I must have really hit my head."

John shot a worried look toward Sherlock, before attempting to engage the woman in field tests for concussion and brain damage.

Sherlock's voice lowered and said, "It's fine to be sure, John, but I'm almost certain she's right."

"Right? Sherlock, she thinks we're imaginary! She must have had quite a blow. I think we need to call that ambulance now."

"Oh we're real enough, John, at least to ourselves and within our little universe, but there are many more out there. Physics postulates innumerable possible universes, and who is to say where they may come from? There are, at last count, 11 mathematically confirmed dimensions, only four of which we can sense. Where are the others? Why couldn't one be a form of consciousness? Who's to say," he mused, "that millions of creative minds couldn't create a million more universes?

"It certainly explains the disappearing cabbie, the wreck and the heroically-timed land rover. If her faculties were limited and her mind was focusing all its resources on obtaining help, all the other things could easily be discarded.

"In other words, John, I think I'm pleased to introduce you to our…," he flashed a momentary sideways grin, "… author."

Both men turned to gaze at her, Sherlock with a look of curiosity mixed with (_was that slight admiration)_; John, one of utter disbelief.

"One of many!" she stuttered quietly, still blushing and suddenly unsure of herself again.

"_Your_ mind, hence _our_ author," corrected Sherlock. "I'm sure there may be many other variations of us running around out there in other universes or shall we say consciousnesses? But you're ours!

"Very pleased to make your acquaintance, by the way." Then absentmindedly he offered, "I wonder who your author is?"

John sat kneeling beside them both, still slack-jawed. At least he was partially covered.

She spoke again, somewhat tremulously, "but if you're figments..how can you be here?"

"Quite simply because, for just a while, you needed us to be more. I think somehow your mind knew where to get help and though I don't know how, it brought you here.

"Perhaps you're a projection of yourself into our reality - a character in your own mind; perhaps somehow our realities have merged for a short time. I doubt we'll ever know conclusively." A frown flitted over his features as the bothersome idea of unknowing nagged at him.

The sound of ambulance sirens neared. Sherlock threw John's clothes at him. "I doubt they'd see us, but still, for propriety's sake."

John, still in a state of extreme confusion, rose and dressed as Sherlock pulled on his own clothing. She looked between them, noticing the flat no longer resembled that of 221 Baker Street, but her own. They, in turn, began to look transparent and fading.

"But," she exclaimed, worried, "what if I need you?"

"We'll always be here", replied Sherlock tapping the side of his head as he began to fade, the reality of the sirens bursting in, John caught her once more as she sank down on the blankets; vanishing a moment later.

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><p>Loud bangs were heard on the door of her flat.<p>

"Hello? Anyone in there? We got a call, open up!"

Two minutes more and a loud smash gained the police and ambulance crew entry to the flat.

They found her lying unconscious, bundled in blankets before a well-stoked fire. Her face cleaned, stitched and expertly patched up.

A quick search of the flat ensured that no one else was on the premises.

"Who called?" one of the ambulance crew asked.

"Dispatcher said no one on the line, just some faint noises in the background."

The sergeant on the team turned around studying the scene. The door and windows had all been closed and locked; no one else at the flat. Her car had been found off the road, wrecked, ten miles from town, blood at the scene. How in the world could she have gotten back here, by herself, in the biting cold, while injured, doctored herself up with no apparent medical supplies, and then called 999?

He posed the question to the rest of the group, but no one seemed to have an answer.

"Sounds like one for Sherlock Holmes!" someone joked.

The ambulance team finished loading her up on the gurney and turned to trundle her out the door.

Once she'd come around again in the hospital, she'd been questioned, but insisted she couldn't remember any of the incident or how she came to be home. After they'd finished, she'd been treated for a leg fracture and bruised ribs. She'd refused pain killers or sleeping pills saying she'd be fine. And to the staff's amazement, she did indeed sleep very well that night, a soft smile occasionally playing across her lips.

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><p><strong>Epilogue<strong>

Still sleepy and somewhat bleary, John stumbled into the sitting room, rubbing the sand from his eyes.

"Morning, John." Sherlock's smooth voice came from the armchair.

"Sherlock," he acknowledged, making his way toward the kitchen, tea and breakfast.

"You look rough. Sleep well?" inquired the velvet voice from the living room.

"Not exactly. Strange dreams. Can't quite remember them, but oddly disturbing. Think I must have tossed and turned most of the night.

"Breakfast, Sherlock?" he asked, hoping to be able to convince the detective to at least ingest a little protein this morning.

To his surprise, his flatmate bounded to his feet, laying aside the book he'd been reading, "Sure, why not?"

John watched Sherlock eat with abandon, so taken back by the sight that he frequently forgot to raise his own fork to his lips.

"New case?" he inquired.

"Not exactly," the detective paused to snatch another piece of toast and lather it in marmalade. "New research!"

As if on cue, the book he'd lain aside chose that moment to tumble to the floor. John merely glanced at the title: 'Quantum Physics and the Mind: a case for Alternate Universes'. "Physics, Sherlock? I thought you found that boring."

"Oh, not so much anymore, John, not anymore."

They finished their breakfast in companionable silence, enjoying the quiet before the hectic schedule that was undoubtedly going to come their way could sweep them into yet another adventure.

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><p>Thanks for reading! :) Please review!<p> 


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